


Have You No Decency

by Queer_Revolutionist



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Burr Shouldn't Leave His Stuff Around, Burrs Journal, Fluff, Hamilton Can You Not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28166664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queer_Revolutionist/pseuds/Queer_Revolutionist
Summary: Alexander find's Burr's journal laying around, much to the delight of the other Aides.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Have You No Decency

Laughter booms from the hallway, echoing down the halls to chime clearly in the sitting room. George, letter in hand, stops his reading to spare a glance at the archway of the room. Loud voices jubilantly make their way to him, although the exact words are undecipherable, muffled by overlapped speaking and laughter. With a quirked eyebrow he wonders what has lifted his aides de camp’s spirits so substantially as sometime earlier they had seemed quite sullen, buried in their duties and complaining of the cold. Even Meade, agreeable temper and forever with uplifted spirits was downtrodden. 

Frowning slightly with a crease between his eyebrows he looks back at his letter, a finely pinned correspondence by General Arnold, then up at the window he stands before, watching a pair of soldiers marching by. He notices their lack of shoes, one man with some cloth wrapped around his feet in their absence. The weather had threatened to take a turn for the worst, grey clouds looming in the sky, heavy with snow. Thankfully the wind was merciful, temporarily halting its otherwise relentless onslaught. Leaning for a better look he could see the heavy indentation in the earth outside where a heavy branch had fallen from a large oak tree the night before. The men had made quick work of the to-be firewood, leaving only the gouged ground as proof of the gale force winds. 

Another bout of laughter pulls his attention away from the weather, of intruding thoughts concerning lack of provisions and harsh conditions. His hand, and the letter within it, drops to his side, his curiosity bubbling over his pensive mood. Unable to resist he places the letter on a side table and leaves the sitting room, his boots heavily thumping against the hardwood floor. 

The walk to the Aides’ room is brief, just past the kitchens and into what was a large study. Inside are four tables, each crammed against a wall with an adjoining chair. Between each table is just enough space for a single person to walk through, so long as they were mindful of the strewn about writing supplies. Quills, inks, blotter paper, letters, melting wax and all manner of utensils were laying about, seemingly forgotten by the men who were gathered around the fireplace and one Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton who was perched atop of the mantle, a small leather bound book in hand. 

“My umbrella hung heavy at my heart,” Hamilton reads, immediately drawing a disapproving scowl from the General who was already suspicious of what was being recited with such mirth, “and you know my umbrella-” 

Hamilton, overcome with a bout of outrageous laughter, all but doubles over on the mantle, threatening to spill himself onto the floor. Around him, Meade, Harrison, Tilghman and Laurens all lose themselves in a fit of hysteria, Laruens clutching his side with visible tears springing from his eyes. Meade, entirely overcome with laughter, sits doubled over in a chair, his face a concerning shade of red as he makes failed attempts to dry his cheeks. 

Hoping to see better of his more senior aides The General looks over to Harrison and Tilghman who, while fairing better than the rest, were leaning on each other for support as they roared and choked on their delight, Harrison spiraling into a coughing fit. 

Evidently unnoticed George watches as Hamilton wheezes a few short breaths, just enough to raise the book and read once more. “And you know my umbrella is on a voyage,” he manages to finish, closing the book between his thumb to keep his place as he is overcome once again. Pinching his fingers against the bridge of his nose Hamilton, too out of breath to properly laugh, takes to wheezing breathlessly. 

Laurens, with plenty of breath to spare, finds his sense enough to speak. “A voyage! He speaks as if missing a lover astray at sea!”

At this Tilghman made proper use of Harrison for support, leaning on him fully as his knees shook with the effort to remain upright. “Per-perhaps,” Tilghman huffed between breaths, "Perhaps it preferred a ride with the British!”

Meade, now resigned to his tearful fate, waves Tilghman away, as if to remove his humor and spare him further suffering. “You go too far,” he huffs breathlessly, continuing his ministrations in a half-hearted attempt to shun Tilghman. 

Having heard enough George clears his throat loudly, dismayed as it is drowned out by their incessant laughter. 

“Gentleman!” he barks, causing three of the five heads to snap in his direction. “Too far, indeed.”

Meade, Tilghman and Harrison all jumped to attention at once. Meade springs from his chair, cheeks wet with tears and hands clutched behind his back attentively. Tilghman and Harrison straighten, Harrison wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket quickly before standing at attention. Sharing an uneasy glance the two older gentleman take to looking behind their General at the wall, hoping to escape any out lash he is sure to give. 

Laurens, after a glance behind him, finally takes note of George. Rather than attempt a show of false modesty he, somehow, scoffs and laughs simultaneously, as if being caught in the act made the whole ordeal more hilarious. He reaches out to grip Hamilton’s knee as he hides his face with his other hand. Knowing himself to be a lost cause Laurens then turns his back to George, holding his nose closed in a pitiful attempt to pull himself together, his shoulders heaving with uncontrolled laughter. 

“I know, John, I know. He is such a-” Hamilton would never complete that specific sentence as he finally manages to pry his eyes open and take in the sight of their displeased commander. 

Within a breath’s span Hamilton is off the mantle of the fireplace, his smile replaced with a severe look, almost as if he too was offended by the picture they painted. “Sir.” he says, putting his hands, and subsequently the book, behind his back. 

Wordlessly George approaches the quickly withering Hamilton. With a piercing look he holds a hand out and stands, waiting. Hamilton, looking properly chastised, withdraws the book from his back and places it in the General’s hand, his gaze averted to the floor. 

Turning his back on Hamilton, George opens the book and takes three heavy, slow, deliberate paces away from the group, all but ignoring Laurens who was still taking in deep, shaky breaths as he struggles to compose himself.

George opens the book, giving each man a disapproving look as he walks by. Inside of the title page, written in a tidy script he silently reads, “Property of Aaron Burr.”

Frowning, now further disgruntled at his suspicions being confirmed, he holds the book up in his hand between his thumb and index finger. “For all the work you’ve to do, the correspondences you’ve to write. This,” he gives the book an aggressive but short shake, “This is how you find amusement to pass time?” 

He turns back to face his Aides, Lauren’s now attentive and looking at the floor, the very picture of regret. George’s voice is like steel, seething and venomous as he speaks, “By stealing the property of another man and publicizing his personal thoughts?”

His eyes single out each man, boring holes into them. Finally he rakes his gaze over Hamilton, pinpointing him as the mastermind behind the operation. “Have you no decency, Hamilton?”

Hamilton’s face remains cautiously vacant, carefully composed in indifference. The only indication of any internal struggle was his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, enunciating the effort it takes for him to remain quiet. 

“Your Excellency, if I may-”

George cuts Lauren’s off sharply, “You may not, Sir!”

Laruens snaps his mouth shut and returns his gaze to the floor, not daring another word. 

George looks to each of them, furiously trying to decide what appropriate action may be taken. With the book still in hand he sighs heavily, closes his eyes for a moment and then points with the book towards the hall. “Hamilton, my office.” he instructs, turning again to leave the room. 

While he feels the blame is on each of them he isn’t daft to who began the expose, knowing very well that Hamilton would have taken it upon himself to steal attention and ridicule Mr. Burr. Still, as Washington stomps his way up the stairs with Hamilton close on his heels, he couldn’t help but wonder what in God’s name possessed Burr to leave his journal laying around. The man should have known! Leaving his belongings about in such a hectic workspace was nothing short of foolish.

At the top of the stairs he takes a right, reaches for the doorknob to his office and swings the door open. He stands to the side so Hamilton can walk past him with downtrodden eyes and follows him in, closing the door with a sharp snap behind them. Walking around to his desk he drops the journal on top of a map and places his hands down, leaning on the furniture as if it will support the grievances his young Aides cause. 

“Alexander,” George starts, knowing a heavy hand could result in backlash. He takes another deep breath and straightens himself. “You know how influential you are, surely you don’t think yourself worthy of such...novice amusements.”

Hamilton, hands firmly clenched behind his back, looks from the book on the desk to Washington. “Sir, I understand your anger and fully anticipate whatever repercussions you deem appropriate.” 

As always, Hamilton fails to see the point entirely. Unable to contain his desperation, his voice strains, "This isn’t about repercussions of that sort, Hamilton.” he says, almost as if begging Hamilton to hear him, to truly hear him. “It is about understanding the role you will play after the war. This is most unbecoming, and in such company. These indulgences will not give you favor within Congress, nor within local gentry.” 

“I understand, Sir,” Hamilton replies, trying his best to look properly chastised. 

“Do you?” George asks, holding his gaze. “I’d think after the unfortunate circumstance with former General Lee you’d be more considerate.” 

“General Lee was a swine and justice was met in your name, Sir,” Hamilton all but growls, the words spilling out of him like vomit. “While I can not fully speak on behalf of Laurens I can speak with conviction that, regrettable as the results were, the actions taken were entirely justifiable.”

Struggling to control the tempest brewing inside him George clenches his jaw briefly and refuses to allow himself to rise to Hamilton’s debate. “We will not speak on the matter again. It has long since resolved and is not the matter at hand. The matter is what is most unbecoming of you and the gentlemen in your presence. Surely you considered how this may appear on the character of your companions, if not yourself?”

At this Hamilton stiffens, his clenched hands embracing the other tighter behind his back. “Sir, I would think this mediocre humor, ill as it may be, does not shed such a light upon them. As you have said, this was of my own doing.”

“Is such a thing to be acknowledged, Hamilton? Walking into a room which delights in the publication of private affairs. Would you see this as honorable?” George asks, knowing he is making ground in the argument despite the incredulous need to do so. He knows well enough by now when Hamilton is scurrying away from a situation, grasping at hairs to win an argument. Clever as Hamilton may be, morality sets the pace and will not be outrun nor outwitted. 

“I would not,” Hamilton finally admits, knowing both the truth and defeat. Regardless of his shared disdain for Burr it was foolish to make a mockery of him without him present. If something should be said, it should be said in a manner to which a man may refute such accusations. 

George, knowing he will get as far as he dares, allows himself a frustrated sigh. After a moment of silent deliberation he puts his hands back on his desk, looking down at his maps before returning his gaze to Hamilton who still stands at perfect attention. “Tomorrow you will ride correspondence to the Generals in place of Meade. I think time away from the house may clear your sensibilities.” 

Hamilton, already feeling the chill of the winter air and cold of the melted snow through his boots, suppresses a groan. Instead he nods to the General with a, “Yes, Sir.” 

“You are dismissed.” George says, knowing the conversation is over. His best wish can be that Hamilton may take the day to reflect on his actions, away from the influence of the family. At the idle thought of the family he catches Hamilton who is already making to open the door and leave. “Hamilton, Laurens is not to accompany you on this task. He is needed here should the Baron find need of his penmanship.” 

For a moment it seems as if Hamilton may argue the point, his hand frozen in place on the doorknob. The brief hesitation passes and he responds with a firm tone, “Of course, Sir. I will see arrangements to have a courier horse saddled and awaiting me come morning.” 

When George says nothing Hamilton takes that as his cue to leave, opening the door and closing it quietly behind him, leaving George to slump down into his chair with an exasperated sigh. He scrubs at his face with his hands, all but glaring at the black journal that lay before him. Wishing to be rid of it for the time being he opens a draw to his desk, drops the book inside and unceremoniously slams the drawer shut. 

Instead of dwelling on the morning George picks up an unread letter and opens it, reading a reply from Lieutenant Colonel Marion regarding food rations for their men and a successful nighttime ambush of a British outpost. In this way he spends the rest of his morning, sequestered in his office, reading letters, planning military tactics and pushing away thoughts of his more precarious aide.


End file.
